HOME    BALLADS 


AND 


POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER, 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR      AND      FIELDS. 

MDCCCLXI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

JOHN     G.     WHITTIER, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  MassuchuscUd. 


I  CALL  the  old  time  back  :  I  bring  these  lays 
To  thee,  in  memory  of  the  summer  days 
When,  by  our  native  streams  and  forest  ways, 

We  dreamed  them  over  ;  while  the  rivulets  made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-trees  laid 
On  warm  noon-lights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain,  — 

The  Autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  i 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 

Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream, 

Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream  ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's  pure  sold 
Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


PS 

3  2  SB- 


CONTENTS. 


BALLADS. 

PACK 
THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER, 9 

THE  GARRISON  OP  CAPE  ANN, 21 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEW  ALL, . , 31 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE, 40 

-  TELLING  THE  BEES, 45 

THE  SYCAMORES, 49 

THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY, < 56 

*•  THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY, 61 

THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA, 67 

MY  PLAYMATE, 78 

POEMS    AND    LYRICS. 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT,.  ..*,.,...«. 85 

THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS, 92 

THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION, 95 

1* 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAOH 

THE  OVER-HEART, 101 

IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE, 105 

TRINITAS, Ill 

THE  OLD  BCRYING-GROUND, 115 

THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW, 120 

MY  PSALM 125 

LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE, 129 

"THE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR, 133 

ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 136 

TO  J.T.  F., 140 

THE  PALM-TREE, U4 

LINES  FOR  THE  BURNS  FESTIVAL, 147 

THE  RED  IUVJIR  VOYAGEUR, 150 

KENOZA  LAKE, 153 

TO  G.  B.  C., 156 

TH  E  SISTERS, 1 58 

LINES  FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL  EXHIBITION, 160 

THE  PREACHER, 102 

THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI, 182 

BKOWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE, 195 

FROM  PERUGIA, 108 

FOR  AN  AUTUMN   FESTIVAL, 204 


BALLADS. 


THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

IT  was  the  pleasant  harvest  time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns- — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  moted  sunlight  streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's  scented  locks  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 


10  T H  L      W  1 1 C  1 I    S     DAUGHTER. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places :  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs  !• 

On  sturdy  boyhood  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves  ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung, 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores  ; 


THE    WITCH'S    DAUGHTER.  11 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane  ! 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard, 
Prom  lip  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  on  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  palsied  limbs  of  age, 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers  ! 


12  THE   WITCH'S    DAUGHTER. 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  thy  humanity  ! 

Poor  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone  ; 


THE     WITCH'S     DAUGHTER.  J3 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  .' 

The  school  boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  pniyor, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  tnere 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horsesnoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  ;  — 

That  mother,  poor,  and  sick,  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  prayer  ; 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more ! 

Sore  tried  arid  pained,  the  poor  girl 'kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 
2 


14  THE   WITCH'S   P.U;<;HTEK. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief; 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shume. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Kven  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 


THE     WITCHES     DAUGHTER.  15 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine/'7  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child  ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows  —  not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away  ; 
And,  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them. " 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law. 


16  THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil  eyed  ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  !  " 

Poor  Mabel,  in  her  lonely  home, 
Sat  by  the  window's  narrow  pane, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  chilhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long-  ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow  boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  water  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 


Sweet  sounds  and  pictures  mocking  so 
The  sadness  of  her  human  lot, 
She  saw  and  heard,  but  heeded  not. 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :  "  Let  me  die  ! 

"  Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave ! 

"Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 
2*  B 


18  THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

"  Oh  God  !  have  mercy  on  thy  child, 

Whose  faith  in  thee  grows  weak  and  small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all !  " 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 

Had  then  God  heard  her?  Had  he  sent 
His  angel  down  ?  In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be  ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you,  must  scoff  at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well  ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 

His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child!  " 


THE     WITCH'S     DAUGHTER.  19 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  Oh,  truest 'friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers  showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors ! ;;  Esek  said, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone  ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his.  " 


20  THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER. 

Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung, 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  I 

For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  ! 

Oh,  pleasantly  the  harvest  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm  boughs  ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well !  " 


THE   GARRISON   OF   CAPE   ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath  the 

tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland  of 

Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide 

glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient 

fishing  town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and  its  mem 
ory  waxes  old, 

When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant 
friend  I  strolled. 

Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and  the  ocean  wind 
blows  cool, 

And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy 
grave,  Rantoul ! 


22  THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN. 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer 

sea  I  blend 
A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather 

penned, 
In  that  quaint  Magnalia  Christi,  with  all  strange  and 

marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos  Ovid 


Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual  life 
of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence ;  outward, 
mean  and  coarse  and  cold ; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vul 
gar  clay, 

Golden  threads  of  romance  weaving  in  a  web  of  hod 
den  gray. 

The   great  eventful   Present   hides   the   Past ;    but 

through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life,  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  behind 

steal  in ; 


THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN,  23 

And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legendary 

rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man 

owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Cove 
nanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's  moor 
land  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  black 
berry  vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  head-stones,  and  retouch 
the  faded  lines. 

Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse  with 
rolling  pebbles,  ran, 

The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray 
rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  pali 
sade 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moon 
light  overlaid. 


24  THE     GARRISON     OF    CAPE    ANN. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and 
eastward  looking  forth 

O'er  a  rude  and  broken  coastline,  white  with  break 
ers  stretching  north,  — 

Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged 
capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 

Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and 
gusty  sea. 

Before    the    deep-mouthed    chimney,    dimly   lit    by 

dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets 

in  their  hands ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch 

was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from 

beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of  wiz 
ards  Satan-sold ; 

Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs  and  won 
ders  manifold  ; 


THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN.  25 

Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men  in 
her  shrouds, 

Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morn 
ing  clouds ; 

Of  the   marvellous  valley  hidden   in   the  depth  of 

Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer  —  blooms  of 

warmer  latitudes ; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's 

flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia  blossoms  star  the  twilight 

of  the  pines  1 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky  tones 

of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of 

evil  near ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim 

of  gun  ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of 

mortals  run  ! 
3 


26  THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN. 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from 
the  midnight  wood  they  came,  — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  un 
harmed,  its  volleyed  flame  ; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in 
earth  or  lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moon-lit 
sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came  ;  from  out  the  forest  moved  a  dusky 

mass,  that  soon 
Grew    to    warriors,    plumed    and    painted,    grimly 

marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts  or  witches/'  said  the  captain,  "thus  I  foil 

the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet, 

down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded 

wall  about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  pali« 

sudes  flashed  out, 


THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN.  27 

With  that  deadly  aim  the    squirrel  on  his  tree-top 

might  not  shun, 
Nor  the   beach-bird   seaward  flying  with   his   slant 

wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless 
shower  of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the  phan 
toms  fled ; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the 
moonlight  lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted 
slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

,$".'. 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain  ;  "  never  mor 
tal  foes  were  there ; 

They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and 
Power  of  the  Air  ! 

Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons  ;  skill  and  prowess 
naught  avail ; 

They  who  do  the  devil's  service,  wear  their  master's 
coat  of  mail !  " 


28  THE    GARRISON    OF     CAPE     ANN. 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again  a 

warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round 

the  dusky  hall ; 
And   they  looked  to   flint   and   priming,  and   they 

longed  for  break  of  day  ; 
But  the  captain   closed 'his  Bible:    "Let  us   cease 

from  man,  and  pray  I  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen 
powers  seemed  near, 

And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its 
roots  in  holy  fear. 

Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was 
bowed  and  bare, 

Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the  cap 
tain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres 

round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound   abhorred,  unearthly,  smote   the  ears 

and  hearts  of  all, — 


THE     GARRISON     OF     CAPE     ANN.  29 

Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  !  Never  after 
mortal  man 

Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round  the  block 
house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and 

sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the  solemn 

legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral  lives 

the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecaying 

truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres 
of  the  mind, 

Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the  dark 
ness  undefined ; 

Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart 
and  of  the  brain, 

And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the  cun 
ning  hand  is  vain. 

a* 


80  THE     GARRISON     OK     CAFE     ANN'. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children  ;  and  no  answer 

from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white 

wings  downward  fly  ; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith, 

and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the 

spirits  of  the  night  1 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEVVALL. 

1697. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 

Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 

For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are  hid, 

And  through  the  vail  of  a  closed  lid 

The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again : 

I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 

And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 

And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 

His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 

Walks  the  Judge  of  the  Great  Assize, 

Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 

His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 

He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought 

Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not ; 


32  PROPHECY     OF     S  A  M  U  E  L     S  E  W A  L  L  . 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss  I 
True,  and  tender,  and  brave,  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust  1 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist  old, 
Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  life-long  kept 
With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the  time 
Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of  crime, 
When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the  witchcraft  courts, 
With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's  Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the  word 
That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the  cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's  breast  1 
All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn ; 
No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of  God, 


PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL.       33 

As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  with  charms 
Of  penitent  tears,  and  praj^ers,  and  psalrns, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the  sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the  Lord, 
His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  renewed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance  sorely  rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled  flood 
Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's  dear  blood  1 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it  glide ! 
Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong/'  he  was  wont  to  say, 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 

c 


3t       PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 

"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand  grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his  head !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave  of  courts 
Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  distorts,  — 
Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged  and  weak 
Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  ; 
For  whose  dabbled  ermine  respect  were  waste, 
Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  'twere  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian  Sheik ! 
Oh  !  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and  sins, 
Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins  ! 
To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day,  — 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn  and  say  : 
"  Praise  and  thanks,  for  an  honest  man  !  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 


PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL.       35 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow ; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 
And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 
Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 
Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves,  — 
Old  homsteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man,  • — 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fire-place  show, 
Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  lo\v, 


36       PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stuirs  ; 
And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 
By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 
Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire 
With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire  ; 
Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering  sands, 
And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines  run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and  old, 
1  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Flit  dimly  by  in  the  vailing  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles,  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time), 


PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL 

And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing  mind  :  — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the  coast 
As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimac  river,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim  ; 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go  ; 
As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill ; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 
Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide ; 
As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 
4 


1'ROPHECY     OF     SAMUEL     SEWALL. 

Wlien  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn 
And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing  corn  ; 
As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nur  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set :  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost 
Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 

The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild  fowl  feeds 

On  hill-side  berries  and  marish  seeds,  — 

All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 

From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 

The  good  man's  vision  returns  again ! 

And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 

That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 


PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL.       39 

May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  corn-field  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to  own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  1 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S   RIDE. 

OF  all  tlie  ridea  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme, — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  hack, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wiuga  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and*  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 


41 

Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an;  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  ct>rrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-hopns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Msenads  sang  : 

"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck  ! 


42 


"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 

Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 

Brag  of  your  catch  offish  again  1  " 

Arid  tiff  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be  I 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
t  p  flow  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S   HIDE.  43 

Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an7  futherr'd  an  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 

Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 

Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 

Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 

Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 

Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 

Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 

Of  voices  shouting  far  and  near  : 

"  Here's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an7  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 


44  SKIPPER   IRESON'S   RIDE. 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  I  "  at  last  he  cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  1 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead !  " 

Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !  —  why  should  we  ? 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


TELLING   THE   BEES.* 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall 

There  are  the  bee-hives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'errun, 

Pansy  arid  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

*  A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old  Country,  for 
merly  prevailed  in  the  rural  districts  of  New  England.  On  the 
death  of  a  member  of  the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed 
of  the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This  cere 
monial  was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from 
leaving  their  hives  and  seeking  a  new  home. 


46  TELLING     THE     BEES. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There 's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze  ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brook-side  my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  IHT  roses  under  the  eaves. 


TELLING     THE     BEES, 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door, 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low ;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 


48  TELLING     THE     BEES 

And  the  song  she  was  sing-ing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  I 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone ! " 


THE   SYCAMORES. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brim  full  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 
5  D 


50  THE     SYCAMORES. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rolic  air  of  Cluny, 

With  the  solemn  march  of  Hear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad. 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 
With  their  silver-sided  haul, 

Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 
He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 


THE     SYCAMORES.  51 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 

Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side, 
With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 

Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 

And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 
Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 

And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  Winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends, 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 

Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 
On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 

Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings  ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings  ! 


52  T  II  E     S  Y  C  A  M  0  R  E  S  ; 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 

"  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies  1 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
"Tis  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ! 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman  ! 

Linking  still  the  river  shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 

Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 


THE     SYCAMORES.  53 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 

Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 
Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 

And  shot  off  his  old  king's-arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 

Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street ; 

Village  girls,  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 

Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew : 
On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 

Cool  and  soft  the  west  wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 

Looking  up  and  looking  down 
On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 

Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales, 
Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  .-sails 


54  THE     SYCAMORES. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 
Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade : 

And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 
Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  harvest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 

Through  the  changes,  changeless  stand ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Marks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft. 


THESYCA MORES.  55 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keczar, 

On  the  open  hill-side  wrought, 
Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 

Songs  his  German  masters  taught. 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 

Round  his  rosy  ample  face  ; 
Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 

Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

/ 

Al^  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy, 

Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 
From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 

Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 

On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees. 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY. 


"  Concerning  y«  Amphisba'na,  as  soon  as  I  received  your  commands,  I  made 

diligent  inquiry  : he  assures  me  y'  it  had  really  two  heads,  one  at  each 

end  ;  two  mouths,  two  stings  or  tongues." 

REV.  CUIUSTUPHEK  TOPPAN    to    COTTON    MATHER. 


FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud    * 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Nowbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisbeena,  the  Double  Snake ! 


THE     DOUBLE-HEADED     SNAKK-  57 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 

Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 

On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sefa, 

Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 

Half-redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wo.od  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and  old, 

Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 

When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 

Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and  hewn  ; 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood  blown, 

Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the  North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 

Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew  cold, 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard's  boasts, 

And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 

The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified  ;  — 

And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 

To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 


8  THK     DOUBLE-HEADED     SNAKE. 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 

And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve  ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 

That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a  score 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen, 

Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 

Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show ; 

Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 

In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 

For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 

Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 

Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 

Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

.•»..'..."      .•  •-"-.»" 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near  ! 

Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear! 


THE     DOUBLE-HEADED     SNAKE.  59 

Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 

o 

Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 

Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 

How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 

The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kino, 

The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 

In  leafy  rustle  or  whirr  of  bird  ! 

Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 

In  berry-time  of  the  younger  sort, 

As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined 

Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 

And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 

The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 

And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 

By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of  day, 

Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 
Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 
The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  bdbv's  cry ; 
And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 
To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 


60  THE     DOUBLE-HEADED     SNAKE. 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side  ; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 

And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 

If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 

Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 

And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  rnarriage-chain, 

The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 

Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the  Double  Snake  ! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 

The  AmphisbaBna  is  living1  still !  " 


THE   SWAN   SONG  OF  PARSON   AVERT. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,,  and  the  summer 

wearing  late, 
Parson  A  very  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife 

and  children  eight, 
Dropping    down    the    river-harbor   in    the    shallop 

"  Watch  and  Wait." 


Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer- 
morn, 

With  the  newly-planted  orchards  dropping  their  fruits 
first-born, 

And  the  homesteads  like  green  islands  amid  a  sea  of 
corn. 


62  THE     SWAN     SONG     OF     PARSON     AVERY. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the  tided 
creeks  between, 

And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and  wal 
nuts  green  ;  — 

A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land  his  eyes  had  never 
seen. 


Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty 

led, 
And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the 

living  bread 
To   the  souls  of  fishers   starving  on  the  rocks  of 

Marblehead. 


All  day  they  sailed :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land- 
breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights 
denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophe 
sied  ! 


THE     SWAN     SONG     OF     PARSON     AVEKY.  63 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rock, 

and  wood,  and  sand  ; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder  in 

his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and 

what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled  round 

him,  weeping  sore : 
"  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ  is  walking 

on  before 
To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall 

be  no  more." 


All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain 

drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror  far 

and  wide  ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote 

the  tide. 


64  THE    SWAN     SONG     OF     PARSON     AVERT. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail  and 

man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp 

and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's 

prayer. 


From   his   struggle   in  the  darkness  with  the  wild 

waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as 

it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was 

cast. 


There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause  of 

wave  and  wind : 
"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  1  linger  just 

behind ; 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  thy  ransomed 

find  ! 


THE     SWAN     SONG     OF     PARSON     AVERY.  65 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of 

thy  word !  — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears 

have  heard !  — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through  the  grace 

of  Christ,  our  Lord  ! 


In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my  every 

sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  thee  my  household  and  my 

kin! 
Open  the  sea-gate  of  thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter 

in!" 


When   the   Christian   sings   his  death-song,  all  the 

listening  heavens  draw  near, 
And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal, 

hear 
How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music  in 

God's  ear. 

6*  B 


66  THE     SWAN     SONG     OF     PARSON     AVERT. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  his  servant's  last  re 
quest  ; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet 
hymn  upward  pressed, 

And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its 
rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks 

of  Marblehead ; 
In   the   stricken   church  of  Newbury  the  notes  of 

prayer  were  read ; 
And  long,    by  board   and  hearth-stone,  the   living 

mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from  the 

squall, 
With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale 

recall, 
When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the 

Rock  of  Avery's  Fall! 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 

1675. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and  stone, 
These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown : 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,  moved  like  living  shuttles,  dwell 
The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back  ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 
Wide  over  hill  arid  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut ; 


68  THE    TRUCK     OF     PISCATAQUA. 

Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 

By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 

And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house  bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 

So,  haply,  shall  before  thine  eyes 

The  dusty  vail  of  centuries  rise, 

The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 

The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 

While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 

Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 

The  figures  of  my  border  song : 

What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 

The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 

With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood  ; 

When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 

From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 

And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's  smoke 

Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron  broke, 

And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 

For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 

Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 

Ilis  native  pride  inviolate  1 


THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA.  69 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  I 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call ! 


70  THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA. 

"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day  ; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night  watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  '  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 


THE    TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA.  71 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 

From  the  grave  I  passed  away ; 

Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds  sang  glad, 

But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squanders  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 


72  THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA. 

"  Waldroii  of  Cocheco,  hear ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear : 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again  !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 


THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet,  for  her  who  waits  at  home 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee  1 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  I 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  1 " 

"  What !  "  quoth  Waldron,  "  leave  a  child 
Christian-born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand  ! " 

"  Hear  me,  white  man  !  "  Squando  cried ; 
"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ?  " 
7 


74  THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA. 

Slowly,  sadly,  half-afraid, 
Half-regretfully,  the  maid 
Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 
Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child  gazed. 
"  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said  ; 
"  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  ! " 


Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 


THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA.  76 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

• 
Unabashed,  the  maid  began : 

"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  '  Chip  ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay  ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 


76  THE     TRUCE     OF     PI3CATAQUA. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

• 
Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 

What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west  wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 


THE     TRUCE     OF     PISCATAQUA.  77 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

Well,  oh,  painful  minister ! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 

Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Ros"e  like  incense  from  a  flame 

To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven, 
Lo  !  another  name  was  given  : 
"  Father,  give  the  Indian  rest ! 
Bless  him  !  for  his  love  has  blest !  " 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 


MY     PLAYMATE.  79 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  ofFollymill. 


80  MY     PLAYMATE. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  : 
Does  she  remember  mine  ? 

And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 
Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 
For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 

That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 
And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

0  playmate  in  the  golden  time  I 
Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 

Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 
The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 


M Y     P  L  A Y  M  ATE. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  feru 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 
Between  myself  and  thee  1 


POEMS   AND   LYRICS. 


THE   SHADOW  AND   THE  LIGHT. 


"  And  I  sought  whence  is  Evil :  I  set  before  the  eye  of  my  spirit  the  whola 
creation  ;  whatsoever  we  see  therein  —  sea,  earth,  air,  stars,  trees,  moral  crea 
tures,  —  yea,  whatsoever  there  is  we  do  not  see  —  angels  and  spiritual  powers. 
Where  is  evil,  and  whence  comes  it,  since  God  the  Good  hath  created  all  things  ? 
Why  made  He  anything  at  all  of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His  All-mightiness 
cause  it  not  to  be  ?  These  thoughts  I  turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged 
with  most  gnawing  cares."  "And,  admonished  to  return  to  myself,  I  entered 
even  into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou  being  my  guide,  and  beheld  even  beyond  my 
soul  and  mind  the  Light  unchangeable.  He  who  knows  the  Truth  knows  what 
that  Light  is,  and  he  that  knows  it  knows  Eternity  !  0  Truth,  who  art  Eter 
nity  !  Love,  who  art  Truth  !  Eternity,  who  art  Love  !  And  I  beheld  that 
Thou  madest  all  things  good,  and  to  Thee  is  nothing  whatsoever  evil.  From  the 
angel  to  the  worm,  from  the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou  settest  each  in  its  place, 
and  everything  is  good  in  its  kind.  Woe  is  me  !  —  how  high  art  Thou  in  the 
highest,  how  deep  in  the  deepest !  and  Thou  never  departest  from  us,  and  we 
scarcely  return  to  Thee."  —  AUGUSTINE'S  SOLILOQUIES,  Book  vii. 


THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 

Between  us  and  the  Airic  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  complaint, 
8 


86  THE     SHADOW    AND     THE     LIGHT. 

^  No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply ; 

Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian  heaven 

He  vainly  questioned  bends  our  frozen  sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife, — 

From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning  slips ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awful  lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 
Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  : 
We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 
Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden  rind. 

From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body's  taint,  the  mind's  defect  — 
Through  every  web  of  life  the  dark  threads  rui 

Oh  !  why  and  whither  ?  —  God  knows  all : 
«  I  only  know  that  he  is  good, 


THE    SHADOW    AND     THE    LIGHT.  87 

And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best  that  could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 

A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 
As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  him, 
And  saw  his  glory  into  goodness  turn ! 

For  he  is  merciful  as  just : 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  his  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er  they  seem  he  doeth  all  things  right. 

And  dare  to  hope  that  he  will  make 

The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful  plain ; 
His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain ; 

That  suffering  is  not  his  revenge 

Upon  his  creatures  weak  and  frail, 
Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes  that  fail ; 


THE     SHADOW    AND     T  il  E     LIGHT. 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold  above  ! 

Ah,  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies 

Seen  through  our  shadows  of  offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish  cries 
The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  e^vil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain  ; 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 

Our  spectral  shapes  before  us  thrown, 
As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in  the  shadows  of  themselves  alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day ; 
Weak,  wavering,  blind,  the  Eternal  Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 


THE     SHADOW    AND     THE     LIGHT.  89 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 

But  love  must  needs  be  stronger  far, 
Outreaching  all  and  gathering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering  star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing  years  ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and  hears, 
"The  KeWrection  and  the  Life  am  I." 

Oh,  Love  Divine  !  —  whose  constant  beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 
Thou  leavest  us  because  we  turn  from  thee  1 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit ; 
Arid,  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  fire  ^ 

On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  thou  know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  Ml ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of  all. 

fi* 


90  THE     SHADOW    AND     THE     LIGHT. 

Oh,  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  !  * 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word. 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The  old  sphere-music  which  the  Samian  heard  1 


Truth  which  the  sage  and  prophet  saw, 

Long  sought  without  but  found  within, 
The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The  Life  o'erflooding  mortal  death  and  sin  I 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which  glowed 

Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd's  way, 
Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting  Day.f 

*  •'  Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  0  Beauty  of  ancient  days,  yet  ever 
new  !  And  lo  !  Thou  wert  within,  and  I  abroad  searching  for 
Thee.  Thou  wert  with  me,  but  I  was  not  with  Thee."  —  AUGUST. 
SOLILOQ.,  Book  x. 

t  "And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of  Darkness  and 
Death :  but  an  infinite  Ocean  of  Light  and  Love  flowed  over  the 
Ocean  of  Darkness :  And  in  that  I  saw  the  infinite  Love  of 
God." — GEORGE  Fox's  JOURNAL. 


THE     SHADOW    AND     THE     LIGHT.  91 

Shine,  light  of  God  !  —  make  broad  thy  scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's  compassion  make  our  longings  poor! 


THE  GIFT   OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  OF  HERBIPOLIS,  one  day, 

While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to  pray, 

Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 

Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 

A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things  to  tell, 

As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the  Abbot  paused  ;  the  chain  whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by  that  cry ; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw  below 
A  wretched  woman,  with  gray  hair  a-flo\v, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to  him,  who  cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be  denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him  who  gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bondage  save,  — 


THE     GIFT     OF     TRITEMIUS.  93 

My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained  with  slaves 
In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun-smit  waves 
Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis  !  " —  "  What  I  can 
I  give/'  Tritemius  said  :  "my  prayers."  —  "  0,  man 
Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had  made  her  bold, 
"  Mock  me  not  thus  ;  I  ask  not  prayers,  but  gold. 
Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone  suffice ; 
Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first-born  dies." 

"  Woman  !  "  Tritemius  answered,  "from  our  door 
None  go  unfed  ;  hence  are  we  always  poor  : 
A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ;  —  what  can  we   give  thee 
more  ?  " 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  candlesticks 
On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 
God  well  may  spare  them  on  his  errands  sped, 
Or  he  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,  "  Even  as  thy  word, 
Woman,  so  be  it!    (Our  most  gracious  Lord, 


94  THE     GIFT     OF     TRITEMIUS. 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 

Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 

Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  !) 

Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem  thy  child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy  alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager  palms  ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden  shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness  prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twilight  came 
He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  a-flame, 
And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to  behold 
Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold  ! 


THE   EVE   OF   ELECTION. 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Of  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  Hunter's  moon. 


In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  1 


THE     EVE     OF     ELECTION. 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west  wind  grieves, 
Yet  conies  a  seed-time  round  again ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 


Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 


Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs ; 

And  princes  meet 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kinga  ! 


THE     EVE     OF     ELECTION.  97 

Hark !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land, 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon ! 


No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

Oh,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear ! 


Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom,  is  the  freeman's  vote  I 


THE     EVE     OK     I 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies : 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice 


The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 


Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 


THE     EVE     OF     ELECTION.  99 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
Oh,  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms,  — 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
Your  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 


Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam  ; 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekings  meaner  seem. 


Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 


100  THE     EVE     OF     ELECTION. 

To  party  claims, 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one ! 


THE   OVER-HEART. 


For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to  Him  are  all  things,  to  whom  be  glory 
for  ever !     PAUL. 


ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 
In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 
The  measured  order  of  his  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all,  — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight, 

Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :  and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ;  — 
Kneels,  trembling,  by  his  altar-stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 
o* 


'*    TJ!^'    OVKR-HEART. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror:  deep  within 

The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 

Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 
And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 

The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise  ! 

And  what  is  He?  —  The  ripe  grain  nods, 

The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet  flowers  blow ; 
But  darker  signs  his  presence  show : 

The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are  God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

Oh,  hearts  of  love  !  Oh,  souls  that  turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and  best ! 
To  you  the  truth  is  manifest: 

For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who  lean  like  John  upon  his  breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  Sybil  told, 

For  whom  the  prophet's  harp  was  toned, 
Whose  need  the  sage  and  magian  owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 

The  hope  for  which  the  ages  groaned ! 


THE     OVER-HEART.  103 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride  I 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  side  ! 

What  doth  that  holy  Guide  require  ?  — 

No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 

But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 
Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 

To  him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 

And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet  rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim !  — 
And  lo  !  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and  Dove  ! 

Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from  him  ; 
And  guilt,  in  suffering,  whispers  Love ! 


10-t  THE     OVER-HEART. 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled  ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  his  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond  a  mortal's  scope  has  grown. 
Oh,  heart  of  mine  !  with  reverence  own 

The  fullness  which  to  it  belongs, 

And  trust  the  unknown  for  the  known ! 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE. 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's  mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  silver  fountains 

Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with  gums  to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while  all  Naples  thrills  with  mute  thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead  monster  so  abhorred  while  living 

In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feigning : 

By  lone  Edgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad  raining, 

Bare-headed  and  wet-eyed ! 


106       IN     REMEMBRANCE    OF    JOSEPH    S  T  U  R  G  E . 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 

Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 
Or  voice  of  craftsman  whispering  to  his  neighbor 

The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  immortals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly  portals 

To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tearful  faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by-places 

And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 

The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 

The  vagrant  of  the  street, 
The  human  dice  wherewith  in  games  of  battle 

The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward  draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament 
Of  grateful  hearts,  instead  of  marble,  shaping 

His  viewless  monument ! 


IN    REMEMBRANCE    OF    JOSEPH    STURGE.      107 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splendor, 

In  the  long-  heretofore, 
A  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and  tender, 

Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old  steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues,  and  peoples 

Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It  came  from  Holstein's  birchen-belted  meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms ; 

From  the  locked  roadsteads  of  the  Bothnian  peasants, 

And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle  presence 

Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste-places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  England's  daisies 

The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 


108   IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  J  O  a  E 1' U  STUROE. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful  example. 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 

As  from  its  prison  cell, 
Praying  for  pity,  like  the  mournful  crying 

Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not  his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  persuasion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occasion 

Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that  intermingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept  single 

Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 

He  joined  to  courage  strong, 
And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's  creatures 

With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong 


IN  REMEMBKAACE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE.   109 

Tender  as  woman  ;  manliness  and  meekness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength  or  weakness 

Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men  failed,  betrayed  him,  but  his  zeal  seemed  nourished 

By  failure  and  by  fall ; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human  kind  he  cherished, 

And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests :  his  greatness  arid  his  sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife  ; 
And  death  has  moulded  into  calm  completeness 

The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  song-birds  warble, 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In  Nature's  keeping,  with  no  pomp  of  marble 

To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are  ringing; 

Beneath  its  smoky  vail, 
Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 

Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 
10 


110   IN  KK MEMBRA NCE  OF  JOSEPH  S  T  U  R  G  E . 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and  beauty, 
Arid  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — 

The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 
Transfigured  into  love ! 


TRINITAS. 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  sec 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three. 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me.77 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 

No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ;  — 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  rny  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should  treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and  wheat  ?  " 

A  presence  melted  through  my  mood,  — • 
A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sunshine  throug'h  a  winter  wood. 


T  It  I  XI I A  S  . 

1  saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete* 
In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware  ! "  I  said  ;  "  in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee : 
Who  touches  pitcli  defiled  must  be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 

And  a  voice  whispered,  "  Who  therein 

Shall  these  lost  souls  to  Heaven's  peace  win  ? 

"Who  there  shall  hope  and  health  dispense, 
And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  penitence  ?  " 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  them  sinks  as  low." 


TRINITAS.  113 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said,  — 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 

Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them  rest!) 

The  poor  creed-mongers  dreamed  and  guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  !  " 

Then  something  whispered,  "Dost  thou  pray 
For  what  thou  hast  ?     This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 

"  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

"In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to  raise 
The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 
Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels  praise ! 
10* 


114  TK1XITAS. 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still,  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 

"  Oh,  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  small ! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call  :  — 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all ! 

"Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul ; — and  the  Three  arc  One  ! " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "  Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  arc  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me ! " 


THE  OLD   BURYING-GROUND. 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 

But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 

To  Death  they  set  apart ; 
With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 

And  none  from  that  of  Art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 
Frost-flung  and  broken,  lines 

A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 
With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head ; 

Within,  a  stag-horned  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 


116  THE     OLD     BURYING-GUOUND. 

There,  sheep  that  graze  the  neighboring  plain 
Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 

The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 
The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply  ; 
Liko  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast ; 
The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shun, 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified  — 
That  he  might  read  who  ran  — 

The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 
The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 


THE     01,  D     BTIRYING-G  ROUND.  117 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beanty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung, 

In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 
And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 

The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 


118  THE     OLD     BURYING-(;  ROUND. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand, 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one  : 

The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
Tho  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 


THE     OLD     BURYING-GKOUND.  119 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  arid  small ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  he  is  pledged  for  all  ? 

0  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  I 
Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  — 

That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 
Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave, 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave  ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE   PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills! 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bovver,  nor  border  tower 

Ilave  heard  your  sweetest  strain  1 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear ;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 


THE     PIPES     AT     LUCK  NOW.  121 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers, — 

Pray  to-day  !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread." 

Oh  !  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it? 

The  pipes  o'  Ilavelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
11 


122  THE     PIPES     AT     LUCK  NOW. 

But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 
The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 

As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 
The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  fueling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 
She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 
"  llurk  !  hear  ye  no'  MucGregor's,  — 

The  grandest  o'  them  all !  " 

Oli  !  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last : 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Groomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !  —  the  march  of  Ilavelockl 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 


THE     PIPES     AT     LUCK  NOW.  123 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust  cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  1 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban. 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 


124  THE     PIPER     AT     LIT  OK  NOW. 

Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 
O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade, 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 
The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 


MY  PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years : 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west  winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  open  to  the  sun. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 
To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 

The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 
Rebukes  my  painful  care. 
11* 


120  MY     PSALM. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  —  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  Spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  Autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 
The  south  wind  softly  sigh, 

And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 
Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the  sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 


MY    PSALM.  127 

But  smiting-  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,  — 

.To  build  as  to  destroy ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 

Have  marked  my  erring  track  ;  — 

That  wheresoever  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back  ;  — 

< 
That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 
Sweet  with  eternal  good  ; 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 

Which  opens  into  light, 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight ;  — 


128  MY     PSALM. 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ;  — 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west  winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  rny  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


LE   MARAIS   DU   CYGNE.* 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  I 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  ! 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  ! 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  ! 

*  The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffending  men,  in  Southern 
Kansas,  took  place  near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of  the  French 
voyageurs. 


130  LE     MARAIS     DU     CYGNE. 

The  foul  human  vultures 
Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 

The  wolves  of  the  Border 
Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins, 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 
By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 

Swooped  up  and  swept  on 
To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 

The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

0,  Marais  du  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  I 


LE     MARAIS     DU     CYGNE.  131 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  1 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come  ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

0  dreary  death  train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child ! 


132  LE     MARAIS     DU     CYGNE. 

But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 
From  ashes  beneath, 

And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 
Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  Hood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 

That  blood  shall  not  dry  ; 
Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 

Shall  harmless  go  by; 
Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 

Unchecked  on  her  way, 
Shall  Liberty  follow 

The  march  of  the  day. 


"THE   ROCK"   IN   EL   GHOR. 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not  back  ; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb ; 
Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 

No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time ! 

Unchanged  the  awful  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod,  — • 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 

Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of  God. 
12 


134  "THE    ROCK"    IN    EL   GHOR. 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra's  gates,  with  deeper  awe 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor  ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 

Thy  Rock,  El  Ghor,  is  standing  yet,  — 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 

And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has  set; 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man, — • 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van  ! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 

Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,  by  Kadesh  Barncu's  wells, 
While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 

And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 


THE     ROCK77     IN     EL     GHOR.  135 


Rock  of  the  desert,  prophet-sung ! 

How  grew  its  shadowing  pile  at  length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 

From  age  to  age  went  down  the  name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 

And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages,  came ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  the}7,  — 
We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of  God. 

God  send  his  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire,  — 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 


ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK, 

WITH   ITS    FRONTISPIECE,  ART    SCHEFFER'S    "CHRISTCS    COXSOLATOR,"   AMERICAX- 
1ZED   BY  THE   OMISSION   OF   THE   BLACK   MAN. 

0,  ARY  SCIIEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh  from  above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear  Lord's  love, 

No  dream  hadst  thou  that  Christian  hands  would  tear 

Therefrom  the  token  of  his  equal  care, 
And  make  thy  symbol  of  his  truth  a  lie  ! 

The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles  fall  away 
In  his  compassionate  gaze,  grubbed  smoothly  out, 
To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 

Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to  pray 

Where  the  great  oriel  stains  the  Sabbath  day  1 

Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying  books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushions  ;  I,  for  one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the  sun, 

Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetan  brooks, 


ON     A     PRAYER-BOOK.  137 

Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple-floor. 

No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before, 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 

Than  that  which  through  the  quaint-carved  Gothic 

door 
Looks  forth,  —  a  Church  without  humanity! 

Patron  of  pride,  and  prejudice,  and  wrong,  — 

The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetish  of  the  strong, 
The  Eternal  Fullness  meted,  clipped,  and  shorn, 
The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  his  kindred  flesh, 
And,  in  his  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  I 
Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 

Where  sweeps  the  storm  Alechan's  steppes  along1, 
His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  weary  iag  Buddha  with  his  prayers  to  make 
The  figures  living  for- the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to  beguile 
The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the  while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges,  rusty  grown, 
Are  moved  by  flattery's  oil  of  tongue  alone  ; 
That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
12* 


138  ON     A     PRAYER-BOOK. 

The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than  selfish  prayers, 
And  words  intoned  with  graceful  unction  move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives  of  truth  and 
love. 

Alas,  the  Church  !  —  The  reverend  head  of  Jay, 
Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her  prayer; 

And  brave  young  Tyng,  too  early  called  away, 
Troubles  the  Harnaii  of  her  courts  no  more 
Like  the  just  Hebrew  at  th'  Assyrian's  door ; 
And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but  dead 
As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain  is  shed, 
And  holy  hyrnns  from  which  the  life  devout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  well-nigh  gone  out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 
For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are  ground ; 
And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes  round, 
Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stones, 
Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bondman  groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smothered,  anthem- 
drowned  ! 


ON     A     PRAYER-BOOK.  139 

Oh,  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !  —  Looking  forth, 
As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 

Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of  Christ  on  earth,  — 
The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  foretold ! 

And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I  see 

Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from  lip  to  lip 
In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  ; 
And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear,  — 
Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear,  — 
Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 
Lo !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  he  wore, 
Healing  and  blessing  on  Genesaret's  shore, 
Folding  together,  with  the  all-tender  might 

Of  his  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the  white, 
Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 

Making  all  burdens  light,  and  breaking  every  chain  ! 


TO    J.  T.  F. 

(ON   A.  BLANK   LEAF   OF    " POEMS   PRINTED,   NOT   PUBLISHED.") 

WELL  thought !  who  would  not  rather  hear 
The  songs  to  Love  and  Friendship  sung 
Than  those  which  move  the  stranger's  tongue, 
And  feed  his  unselected  ear? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame  ; 
Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 
Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 
Who  wants  the  public  crier's  bell? 

To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 
Who  wants  to  play  the  ass's  part,  — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 
And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 


TO     J.    T.    P.  141 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 
That  mocked  the  shorn  and  blinded  slave  ? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 
And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 
Of  strange  gifts,  craves  its  common  food,  — 
Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 
Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency ! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 
In  Wartburg  woods  ;  or  that  poor  girl's 
Who  by  the  Ilm  her  spindle  whirls 
And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimar  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 
His  votaries  in  and  out  again  ! 


142  TO     J.    T.    F. 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet  I      * 
Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair  I 
Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 
The  dark,  cold  sky ;  and  dim  and  lone 
1  see  ye  sitting  —  stone  on  stone  — 
With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes  ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 
And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 
Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice : 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice,  — 
The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  ; 


TO     J.    T.    F.  143 

The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  flail-beat  chiming  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 
The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze  1 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 

And  help  me  to  the  vales  below 

(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 

Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields  extend. 


THE  PALM-TREE. 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose  ribs  of  palm  have  a  palm-bark  sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 

But  hollowed  nuts,  filled  with  oil  and  wine, 

And  the  cabbage  that  ripens  under  the  Line  I 


THE     PALM-TREE.  145 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  ? 

The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill  could  charm 

Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin,  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed, 
And  a  palm-thatch  shields  from  the  sun  aloft ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 

« 

And  he  holds  a  palm-leaf  scroll  in  his  hands, 
Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  commands ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

Was  daintily  wrought  of  the  palm-leaf  braid, 

And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was  made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as  oue ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine,  — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and  wine ! 

13  j 


1 40  T  H  E     P  A  L  M  -  T  K  K  R  . 

And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  peace. 

"  Allah  il  Allah  !  "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm ; 
"  Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the  palm  !" 


LINES 

RBAD  AT  THK   BOSTON   CELEBRATION   OF   THE   HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OK  THK 
BIRTH   OF    ROBERT   BURNS,    25TH    1ST   MO.,    1859. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down. 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  I 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain  airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  1 

Yet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird  ! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and  high 

The  cloudy  organs  blow  ! 


148  LINES     FOR    THE     BURNS     FESTIVAL. 

And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  fiaply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue  ; 
For  he  who. sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  Spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 

To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 


LINES     FOR    THE     BURNS     FESTIVAL.  149 

And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations  lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine ! 

13* 


THE   RED   RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins,  - 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north  wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning' 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 


THE     RED     RIVER     YOYAGEUR.  151 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north  wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 

The  bitter  north  winds  blow, 
And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 

Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 


152  THE     RED     RIVER     VOYAGEUR. 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 
The  signal  of  his  release 

In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 
The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  I 


KENOZA   LAKE. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim : 

Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 
We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel !  —  let  no  more 

The  echoes  answer  back  "  Great  Pond/' 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 

Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 

Call  buck  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 

The  nutted  woods  we  wandered  through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 


154  KKNOZA     LAKE. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 

Harmless  as  summer  lightning  plays 
From  a  low,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 

A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 
But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 

In  sunny  South  and  p rained  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering  still, 

As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their  nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day ; 

And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  ere  long, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 

Kenoza !  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud  sail, 
No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 

The  sunset's  golden  vail. 


KKXOZA     LAKE.  156 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall  break  with  harsh-resounding  din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trurnpet-note ; 

Wing-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife  ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

And  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  released, 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And  when  the  summer  day  grows  dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic  sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


TO   G.  B.  C. 

So  spake  Esaias  :  so,  in  words  of  flame, 
Tekoa's  prophet-herdsman  smote  with  blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to  shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  for  thee  again, 
To  smite  like  lightning'  on  the  hands  profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the  chain. 

Once  more  th'  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow  new  strung  I 

Take  up  the  mantle  which  the  prophets  wore ; 
Warn  with  their  warnings,  —  show  the  Christ  once 

more 
Bound,  scourged,  and  crucified  in  his  blameless  poor; 

And  shake  above  our  land 
The  unquenched  bolts  that  blazed  in  Ilosea's  hand! 


TO     G.    B.    C.  157 

Not  vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon  our  years 
The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient  seers, 
And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's  ears. 

Mightier  was  Luther's  word 
Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or  Button's  sword  ! 


14 


THE  SISTERS. 

A   PICTURE   BY   BARRT. 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Cornea  down  the  singing  rill, 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one,  — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 

Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 
Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 

Is  less  for  love  divine. 


THE     SISTERS.  159 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  sounds  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  my  breast, 

Arid  teach  my  heart  to  lean 
With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 

Which  folds  us  both  unseen  I 


LINES 

FOR   THK    AGRICULTURAL    AND    HORTICULTURAL    KXHIBITIOS    AT    AMKSBURT    AND 
SALISBURY,  SEPT.    28,   1868. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 

And  tasteless  ground-nut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and  pear ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod  ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill,  — 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

0  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  ! 

We  thank  thee  fur  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  thine. 


FOR     AX     AGRICULTURAL     EXHIBITION.         161 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 

The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 
That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 

May  trust  tliee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give  fools  their  gold,  and  knaves  their  power; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 

And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall  grow, 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven  I 


14* 


THE  PREACHER. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 

Far  down  the  vale,  ray  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 

The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 

Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery  ; 

The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 

And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 

Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south ; 

The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth ; 

The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 

The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 
A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay 
Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 
Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 


THE     PREACHER.  163 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  named  upon  the  city's  panes, 
Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 
Outward  or  in,  and  gilded  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 


Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 

Overran  the  landscape.     "  Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 

What  is  it,  pray  ? "  —  "  The  Whitefield  Church  ! 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's  bones. " 


Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 


J64  THE     PREACHER. 

A  symbol  of  the  light  became 

Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame 

With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 

Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 

On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the  change 

Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's  range. 

The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 

Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run,— 

Flocks  on  the  hill-sides,  herds  on  the  plain, 

The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit  and  grain  ! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 

A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 

To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade 

A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 

The  church,  to  place  and  power  the  door, 

Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 

Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 

And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 

And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers  meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 


THE     PREACHER.  105 

A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 

When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break  of  day,  — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 

And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 

But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting  roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth  shoots  ; 
From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  proceeds, 
And  the  lile  of  truth  from  the  rot  of  creeds  : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  his  judgments  still  are  a  mighty  deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  his  providence  never  sleep : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  he  gives  the  morn  ; 
When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine  and  corn ! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards  wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of  thought; 

And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded  and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 

Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 

The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 


1G6  THE     PREACHER. 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 

To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 

Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent  heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 

Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton  woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  i'all  ? 

Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on  Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are  known, 

But  the  Lord  and  his  love  are  the  light  alone ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  countenance 

Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance, 

Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 

Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard  ; 

And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 

That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she  bore 

Clusters  of  Eschol  from  Canaan's  shore  ! 

As  the  barley-winnower,  holding  with  pain 
Aloft  in  waiting  his  chuff*  and- grain, 


THE     PREACHER.  1C7 

Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles  stirred, 
Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 
All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines  . 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to  prnyor, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret  stair. 
Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 


168  THE    PREACHER 

The  trembling  band  of  tbe  worldling  shook 
The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book  ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten  long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward  course 
Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  : 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard  town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 

Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched  hands 

And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 

The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 

Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace,  who 

Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them  anew  ? 

Lo  !  by  the  Merrimack  WHITEFIELD  stands 

In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by  hands, — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 

And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all !  — 

A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame  ; 


THE     PREACHER.  169 

Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 

And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 

Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 

And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 

Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 

Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that  lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 

Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying  —  Repent! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break  ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw : 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 
To 


170  THE     PREACHER. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard  : 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Sauton's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
AVorship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Tlius  he —  to  whom,  in  the  painful  stress 

Of  zeal  on  lire  from  its  own  excess, 

Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so  small 

That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was  all  — 

Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 

That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man  are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 

The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 

Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 

Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor  man's  wrou^, 

The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the  strong. 

Should  the  worm  be  chooser?  —  the  clay  withstand 

The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears  : 


THE    PREACHER.  1 7 1 

"  Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  ; 

"  Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of  death  ! 

All  is  illusion,  —  loss  but  seems  ; 

Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 

Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill ; 

Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 

Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 

Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time  ; 

Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 

To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods  I" 

So  by  Savanna's  banks  of  shade, 
The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher  laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and  rent, 
And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  cement; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast  to  coast 
Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the  gold 
Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning  hold. 
What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 
Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness  ? 
Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity? 


172  THE     PREACHER. 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished  schemes  1 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but  dreams ; 
Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of  man. 
Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands  in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to  sand ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's  shore. 
Father  of  Light !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
With  the  blood  and  tears  of  humanity  ! 

lie  erred  :  Shall  we  count  his  gifts  as  naught  ? 
Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  an  wrought? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness  err, 
And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon.  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 


TPTE     PREACHER.  173 

Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and  good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  ? 
For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure  and  sweet? 
So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher  went, 
God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he  passed 
Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of  old,  — 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of  Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river  slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his  lips. 
Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's  yard, 
15* 


174  THE     PREACHER. 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending  goad, 
The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
Arid  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in  bloom 
Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 
Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 

Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 
Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 

It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 

Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final  choice  ; 
As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 

The  vails  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 

Showing  in  light  ineffable 

The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell ! 

All  about  in  the  misty  air 

The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent  prayer ; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge, 

The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 


THE     PREACHER.  175 

The  wailing-  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 

The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  complaint,  — 

To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  proucher  lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament; 

And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy  coast 

On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now  lost, 

Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the  judgment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men  wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them  swept, 
And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came, — 
Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 
With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And  Celtic  Tennant,  his  long  coat  bound 
Like  a  monk's  with  leathern  girdle  round, 
Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And  wringing-  of  hands,  and  eyes  aglare, 


176  THE     PREACHER. 

Groaning  under  the  world's  despair ! 

Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to  lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 

That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mushrooms  die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 

Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  Newbury  street, 

Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's  feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 

For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 

Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 

Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 

With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white  heat  cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 

No  longer  harried,  and  cropped,  and  fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 

But  by  wiser  councils  left  at  ease 

To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 

And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 

The  work  which  his  fathers  scarce  begun, 

li»  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 

The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own,— 

A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 

With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires, 


THE     PREACHER.  177 

And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked ! 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 

Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 

And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by  side, 

Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride  ?  — 

That  passionate  longings  and  fancies  vain 

Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the  brain  ?  — 

That  over  the  holy  oracles 

Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells?  — 

That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 

Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 

How  unweaned  children  chirped  like  birds 

Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 


178  THE     PREACHER. 

Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Pny  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's  speech  ! 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom  wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of  ages, 
Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals  ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  : 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  ieel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  ncro 


THE     PREACHER.  179 

The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  overdrift 

And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual  gift, 

Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk  ? 

Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic  monk? 

The  tide  that  loosens  the  temple's  stones, 

And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis  bones, 

Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 

That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering  sand, 

Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 

Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 

And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 

So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and  strong 

Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 

But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 

Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 

The  husband  and  father  whose  children  fled 

And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken  tread 

Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's  shade, 

And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone  made, 


180  THE     PREACHER. 

In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own,  began 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane  of  man. 
Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The  prom;  c  of  Heaven's  eternal  years,— 
The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's  annoy,  — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy  1 

Under  the  church  of  Federal-street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 


THE     PREACHER.  181 

And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 

For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whilefield  Church; 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of  trade, 

And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure  laid, 

By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 

That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 

Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 

And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 

Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 

Arid  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 

The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defence, 

As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 

With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod,  — - 

Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 

Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 

His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town ! 


16 


THE   QUAKER   ALUMNI.* 

FROM  the  well-spring's  of  Hudson,  the  sea-clills  of 

Maine, 

Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather  again  ; 
And,  with  hearts  warmer  grown  as  your  heads  grow 

mure  cool, 
Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to  school. 

All   your   strifes    and   vexations,   your   whims    and 

complaints, 
(You  were  not  saints  yourselves,  if  the  children  of 

saints  !) 

All  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rivalries  done, 
Kouud  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your  hearts  beat  as  out* ! 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed  from  the  foil, 
Though  your  "thee"  has  grown  "you,"  and  y«  ;;r 
drab  blue  and  gold, 

*  Read  at  the  Friends'  School  Anniversary,  Providence,  K.  I., 
6th  mo..  IbtiO. 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  183 

To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the  garb's  sober  form, 
Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan,  you  warm. 

But,  the  first  greetings  over,  you  glance  round  th« 

hall ; 

Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  answer  not  all : 
Thru  ugh  the  turf  green  above  them  the  dead  cannot 

hear ; 
Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad  as  a  tear ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  summoned  so  soon 
From  the  morning  of  life,  while  we  toil  through  its 

noon  ; 
They  were  frail  like  ourselves,  they  had  needs  like 

our  own, 
And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's  mercy  alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit  and  frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord  is  the  same  ; 
•Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  his  arms  break  our 

fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life  he  is  Father  of  all ! 


1 84  T  I!  K     QUAKER     ALUMNI. 

We  are  older :  our  footsteps,  so  light  in  the  play 
Of  the  far-away  schooltime,  move  slower  today;  — 
Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there  a  bald,  shin 
ing  crown, 

And  beneath  the  cap's  border  gray  mingles  with 
brown. 

But  faith  should  be  cheerful,  and  trust  should  be 

glad, 

And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years,  make  us  sad. 
Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the  bonnet  grows 

prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat  grows  in 

brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave;  but,  with  rain-folded  wings, 
Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful  heart  sings  ; 
And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to  pay 
The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on  our  way, 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the  follies  of  youth ; 
For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  whiteness  of  truth  ; 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  185 

For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love  tempered  itn 

edge; 
For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the  discipline's 

hedge ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed  to  the  least 
Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  human  or  beast, 
Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending  strength  to  the 

frail 
In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut,  and  jail ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier,  by  all 
Her  knowledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve  ere  her  fall,  — 
Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  lightly  as  play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as  the  day ; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  embraces  the 

whole, 

Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and  the  soul, 
Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  same  channel  run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God  has  made  one ! 
16* 


186  THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI. 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed  everywhere, 

As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the  air ; 

For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or  Jew, 

And  a  hope  for  all  darkness  The  Light  shineth  through. 

Who    scofls  at  our  birthright?  —  the  words  of  the 

seers, 

And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twilight  of  years. 
All  the  fore-gleams  of  wisdom  in  santou  and  sage, 
In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true  heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato  discerned  ; 
The  truth,  as  whose  symbol  the  Mithra-tire  burned; 
The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic  but  guessed, 
In  the  Light  Universal  the  Quaker  confessed  ! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  belong; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered  into  song ; 

l>ut   the    fountains  they  opened  still   gush    by  iho 

way, 
And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  better  to-day. 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  187 

lie  who    lies  where    the    minster's    groined    arches' 

curve  down 

To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  England's  renown, 
The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  enthroned, 
Whose  pen  as  a  sceptre  the  Muses  all  owned,  — 

Who  through  the  world's  pantheon  walked  in  his 

pride, 

Setting  new  statues  up,  thrusting  old  ones  aside, 
And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history  dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in  his  crypt,  — 

How  vainly  he  labored  to  sully  with  blame 

The  white  bust  of'Penn,  in  the  niche  of  his  fame ! 

Self-will  is  self-wounding,  perversity  blind  : 

On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker  designed  ! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father  before  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother  that  bore  him  ; 
For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works  that  outlive 

-him, 

And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we  freely  forg-ive 
him  ! 


188  THE     QUAKE  It     ALUMNI. 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that  our  numbers  are 

small,  — 

New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline  and  our  fall ; 
But  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes  care  of  his  own, 
And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our  sowers  have 

sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may  go, 
Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Barnum  to  show ; 
But  the  truth  will  outlive  him,  and  broaden  with  years, 
Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong  disappears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.    Out  of  sight  sinks  the  stone, 
In  the  deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles  sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs  along  the  shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad  in  the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease,  to  forget 

To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Freedom  our  debt '!  — 

Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the  irarb  that  they 

wore, 
And  for  Barclay's  Apology  offer  one  more? 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  189 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft  that  glutted  the 

shears, 
And   festooned  the  stocks  with   our    grandfathers' 

ears  ?  — 
Talk    of    Woolman's    unsoundness  ?  —  count    Peim 

heterodox  ? 
And  take  Cotton  Mather  in  place  of  George  Fox?  — 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ?  —  quote  Scrip 
ture  to  take 

The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus'  sake  ?  — 
Go  to  burning  church-candles,  and  chanting  in  choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick  up  a  spire  ? 

No!  the  old  paths  we'll  keep  until  better  are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad  or  our  own ; 
And  while  "  Lo  here  "  and  "  Lo  there  "  the  multitude 

call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to  all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not  refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were  Jews  ; 


190  THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI. 

But  why  shirk   the   badge  which  our  fathers  have 

worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having  been  born  ? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's  prayer, 
Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benjamin's  share. 
Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and  one : 
Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up  the  sun  ? 

Well    know   we    our   birthright  may  serve    but   to 

show 

How  the  meanest  of  weeds  in  the  richest  soil  grow  : 
But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good  which  we  hold : 
Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the  treasure  is  gold ! 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and  the  name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be  our  aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life  may  be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab  coats  or  blue, 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship  at  will, 
In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's  hill. 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  191 

When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what  cares  the  good 

town 
For  the  Baptist  of  WAYLAND,  the  Quaker  of  BROWN  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh  and  sea- 
blown. 

When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her  annals  have 
known, 

Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gaugers  of  sect 

To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her  respect. 

Three   shades   at   this   moment   seem  walking   her 

strand, 
Each  with  head  halo-crowned,  and  with  palms  in  his 

baud, — 

Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and,  smiling  serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is  seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer  they  need 
Credentials  of  party,  and  pass-words  of  creed: 
The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  three-fold  accord, 
And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith,  and  one  Lord ! 


192  THE     QCAKKR     ALUMNI. 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out:     Occasions  like  those 
Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on  the  seas : 
While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and  pebbles  ashore, 
They  lessen  and  lade,  and  we  see  them  no  more. 

Forgive  me,  dear  friends,  if  my  vagrant  thoughts 

seem 
Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and  plays  with  his 

theme. 

Forgive  the  light  measure  whose  changes  display 
The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief  April  day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip  and  the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile  or  to  cry  ; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt  like  our  owa 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in  tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys  and  the  girls 
At  the   feet  of  your  Slocums,    and  Cartlands,  and 

Earles,  — 

By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 
On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift,  to  day, — 


THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI.  193 

I  would  joy  in  your  joy :  let  me  have  a  friend's  part 
In  the   warmth   of  your  welcome   of  hand  and   of 

heart,  — 
On  your  play-ground  of  boyhood  unbend  the  brow's 

care, 
And  shift  the  old  burdens  our  shoulders  must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School !  giving  out  year  by  year 
Recruits  to  true  manhood,  and  womanhood  dear : 
Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty  sent  forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its  worth  ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily  flow 
As  in  broad  Narraganset  the  tides  come  and  go  ; 
Arid  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in  prairie  and  town 
Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its  renown. 

Not  vainly  the  gift  of  its  founder  was  made  ; 
Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  corner  were  laid  : 
The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret  they  sought 
Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the  fathers  have 
wrought. 

17  M 


194:  THE     QUAKER     ALUMNI. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever !  —  We  bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat  with  the  tare. 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He  find  in  our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from  the  ill '. 


BROWN   OF   OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN   BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE    spake    on    his    dying 

day : 
"  I   will   not   have    to    shrive    my  soul  a  priest   in 

Slavery's  pay. 
But    let    some    poor    slave-mother    whom    I    have 

striven  to  free, 
With  her  children  from  the  gallows-stair  put  up  a 

prayer  for  me  !  " 

John   Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to 

die; 
And  lo  !    a  poor  slave-mother  with   her  little  child 

pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old 

harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed 

the  negro's  child ! 


196  BROWN     OF     OSSAWATOMIE. 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life   that   moment   fell 

apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  forgave  the 

loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its   guilty  means  redeemed   the 

good  intent, 
And  round   the   grisly   fighter's  hair   the   martyr's 

aureole  bent ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil 
good! 

Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with 
human  blood  ! 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought 
which  underlies ; 

Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Chris 
tian's  sacrifice. 

Never  more  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  Northern  rifle 

hear, 
Nor   see   the   light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the 

negro's  spear. 


BROWN     OF     OSSAWATOMIE.  197 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded 

passes  scale, 
To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and  justice 

more  than  mail ! 


So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle   in   array  ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter 

snow  with  clay.  • 

She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares 

not  harm  the  dove  ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open  wide  to 

Love ' 


FROM   PERUGIA. 


"The  thing  which  has  the  most  dissevered  the  people  from  the  Pope,  the 
•unforgivable  thing,  —  the  breaking  point  between  him  and  them,  —  has  oeen 
the  encouragement  and  promotion  he  gave  to  the  officer  under  whom  were  exe 
cuted  the  slaughters  of  Perugia.  That  made  the  breaking  point  in  many  honest 
hearts  that  had  clung  to  him  before." 

HARRIET  BEKCHKB  STOWK'S  "LETTERS  FROM  ITALY." 


THE   tall,  sallow  guardsmen   their  horse-tails   have 

spread, 

Flaming-  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff, 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff ; 
Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the  cardinals  forth, 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the  earth. 

What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of 

drum  ?  ^ 

Lo  I  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia  come,  — 
The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 


FROM     PERUGIA.  199 

To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed  and  ab 
horred 

The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "Thus  saith  the 
Lord  !  " 

And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword! 

0  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn  I 

0    fathers,    who    pluck    at    your    gray   beards    for 

shame ! 

0  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name  ! 
Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy   Church  hireling  be 
haves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves  1 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood 
stains  yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of 
flesh,  - 

Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 

How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews 
crack ; 


200  FROM     PERUGIA. 

But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as  their 

swords, 
And   the   sneer  and  the  scowl  print   the  air  with 

fierce  words ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas 

like  mad  ! 

Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness  clad, 
From    shorn    crown   to   toe-nail,    kiss-worn    to   the 

quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 
Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier  unites, 
And  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome  ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new  era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be  a 

mun  ? 
Ah,  the  wolf's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with  the 

fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier  and  cowl ! 


FROM     PERUGIA.  201 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here  's  a  hangman-faced 

Swiss  — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss)  — 
Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 
Short   shrift  will   suffice  him  —  he 's   blest  beyond 

doubt ; 
But  there's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would  scarcely 

wash  out, 
Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make   way  for  the   next  I     Here 's    another   sweet 

son! 

What 's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in  epaulettes  done  ? 
lie  did,  whispers  rumor  (its  truth  God  forbid!) 
At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 
And    the    mothers?  —  Don't    name    them!  —  these 

humors  of  war 
They  who   keep   him  in   service  must  pardon  him 

for. 

Hist !   here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth  of  a  cat 


202  FROM     PERUGIA. 

(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled^, 
Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and 

gold, 

Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers  from  thence, 
And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?     Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest  ? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical 

board, 
The  true   flesh   and   blood  carved  and  .shed  by  its 

sword, 
When  its  martyr,  un singed,  claps  the  crown  on  his 

head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbor  instead ! 

There !    the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed 

way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's  day. 
llark  !    the   tallow-faced   monsters,  nor  women  nor 

boys, 
Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 


FROM     PERUGIA.  203 

Te  Deum  laudamus! — All  round  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in  't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little  account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on  the  Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was  poor, 
No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 
No    Swiss   guards !  —  We    order   things   better   at 
Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us  the  weak; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak ; 
Let  the  wolf-whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With  his  death-cap  of  silence,  and  halter,  and  chain  ; 
Put  reason,  and  justice,  and  truth  under  ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man ! 


FOK  AX  AUTUMN   FESTIVAL. 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres,  charm  no  more  ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 
And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt : 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And  manhood's  toil,  are  honored  yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  ilowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessing  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 

With  fruit,  and  flower,  and  golden  corn  ! 


FOR    AN    AUTUMN     FESTIVAL.  205 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 

Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 

Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered  sheaves  ; 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 

Her  brow  is  bright  with  autumn  leaves. 

0,  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 

0,  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent ! 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fullness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on  ; 

We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill ; 
We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 

That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 

The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 
And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 

Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 


206  FOR     AN     AUTUMN     FESTIVAL. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day? 

Who  scorns  his  native  frtiit  and 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's  arm 
Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,— 

That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars  wreathed  with  flowers 
And  piled  with  fruits  awake  again 

Thanksgiving  for  the  golden  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ! 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


MAR  25  194 


M 


E3QJ 


3  OS  704- 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


